Kiss of a Wolf
by Kyla Baines
Summary: In a tumultuous world, the methods that a man will use to send a message are sometimes unprecedented. A gift fiction involving Alistair/f!Cousland and dark!Loghain. AU, one-shot prompt from Swooping is Bad.


**A/N:** _This is a gift fic for my 100__th__ reviewer of my main story, "Duty and Devotion." The lovely __**Swooping is Bad**__ requested that I do something darker, and along the lines of the "Stolen Kiss" mod with Cullen. The kiss is unrequited, and about dominance over one's enemies and sending a message. Enjoy!_

_-Kyla_

* * *

Eamon pressed thumb and forefinger to each of his temples as he reread the letter that had arrived only moments earlier. He had never dreamed that – of all possible reactions – this would be the course of action Loghain would take upon finding out about the Landsmeet.

_To the honorable Arl Eamon Guerrin:_

_To celebrate the reunion of Ferelden's nobility here in her capitol city, your presence has been requested at a commemorative ball tomorrow evening at the Royal Palace. As a candidate to the throne, the honor of Alistair Theirin's presence is also requested, as is Elissa Cousland, his fellow Grey Warden and daughter to the late Teyrn of Highever. _

_The ball will be in the style of an Orlesian Masquerade. Please present this letter upon your arrival._

_In my own hand,_

_Queen Anora Theirin-Mac Tir_

Eamon did not fool himself into thinking that this was as simple as an invitation. It was a direct order, and a carefully worded threat.

* * *

This was going to be a disaster

The carriage pulled to a stop outside of the palace. A long, cobbled path led up to the massive gates, which had been thrown wide open to admit the hundreds of guests that evening. Lanterns that had been covered in glass shades of every color were placed at strategic intervals along the path, casting a mosaic of brilliant light onto the ground.

Eamon stepped to the ground first, dressed conservatively in all black, and a silver mask that flared down to a curved beak over his nose. Alistair followed.

For the first time in his life, he was dressed in accordance with his title. Tonight, instead of battered armor, grimy leathers, and sturdy boots, he looked every inch the son of Maric Theirin. A blood red shirt with loosely fitted sleeves and scalloped gold stiches only hinted at his broad chest and strong arms, and black breeches encased his legs, topped by fitted leather boots that reached his knees. These details, however, were outshone by the crowning glory of the ensemble: an intricate red mask that flared up and over his head in a series of red spikes, and fangs crafted of ivory curved around his jaw. Alistair came tonight as a dragon.

He felt utterly ridiculous.

Adjusting the uncomfortable shirt, Alistair held out a hand for his friend, leader, and love. She stepped down to the ground, and delicate white lace billowed in the breeze. The tight bodice flared at her hips to a skirt that fell in soft folds to the floor, shimmering softly as it caught the light. Long sleeves were fitted around her arms, but fell in long sheets to blend seamlessly into the skirt. Her black hair was styled into an elaborate nest of curls at the top of her head, and pearl pins shimmered throughout. The mask that Elissa wore was simply done in white and silver, and a lone white feather affixed to the top of the mask stood up, every bit as graceful as the dove it depicted.

Her face was arranged into a carefully pleasant expression, her years of training to be a lady of status helping her to stand tall and proud, even under the most uncomfortable situations.

Alistair smiled at her – a crooked twitch of his lips that showed his nerves – and she took his proffered arm. Together, they strode up the walk and entered the palace, Eamon a few paces behind.

Music drifted from the main ballroom into the foyer, and hundreds of mouthwatering aromas assailed them. They handed their card to the announcer that stood at a podium, and all eyes were drawn to them as he spoke.

"Arl Eamon Guerrin of Redcliffe. Elissa Cousland, daughter of the late Teyrn Bryce Cousland of Highever. Alistair Theirin, half-brother to our fondly remembered King Cailan Theirin, and son of King Maric Theirin."

Even the orchestra tapered off at this astonishing declaration. Eamon cleared his throat, and placed his hands at the small of Alistair's back, gently pushing the two of them forward. It was no accident that Alistair had been announced as such, and all three of them knew that. It was an open challenge, and there was no doubt who had arranged it as such.

Elissa plastered on a gracious smile, and led a shocked Alistair down the grand, marble staircase. She turned to him and attempted to take Alistair's mind off of the situation.

"My memory may be failing me, but I believe that you once mentioned something about knowing the Remigold?" Her face glowed, and she glanced toward the multitude of twirling couples on the polished wooden floor in the center of the room.

"Ah, yes. Well, about that," he stuttered, cheeks burning pink. "You see, my dear, I don't really… dance." He gestured wildly with both arms. "I end up hopping about aimlessly, losing my partner, and find myself alone in the middle of the floor with only one shoe and everybody laughing at me. It's terrible, really."

She smiled more deeply, and gave his arm a tug. "Oh, don't tell me that you never learned to dance at _all_. In fact, your uncle told me that your step is quite spry."

"Oh, dear Uncle Eamon. See if I ever save his village from the blasted undead again," he muttered. "Very well, but I warn you, my dancing may just scare away this archdemon altogether."

The moved out to join the throng of dancers, just as the cadence of the music changed to a slower waltz. Alistair held her tightly, and they moved together easily, Alistair far more sure-footed than he claimed. Though they drew many gazes, they had eyes only for one another. He smiled, fixing a smoldering look on her before speaking in a low voice meant for her ears only.

"I love you, you know."

She looked up from under full lashes. "I know."

He smiled, and he dipped down, intent on capturing her lips with his own. A tap on his shoulder pulled him up short. Alistair turned, scowling at the interruption.

It was Loghain. He was dressed in all grey with a black, fur pauldron that his shoulder-length hair matched perfectly. The fur cape was hooded by the head of a great wolf, and coal black eyes stared out from under the snout.

"Ah, if it isn't Maric's little bastard, all grown up. I'm ever so glad that you decided to… grace us with your presence." His tone was mocking, and his eyes turned to glance over Elissa. "I'm sure you won't mind if I steal your charming partner for the next dance?"

Alistair stepped sideways to partially shield Elissa from view. "Actually, I do mind."

Loghain raised an eyebrow and glanced back at the many curious eyes that had been drawn to the scene. "Dear me. Let's not make a scene, shall we?"

Alistair frowned, but Elissa's hand on his shoulder prevented any outburst. "It's all right, Alistair. It's only a dance."

After a pause, and with Elissa's tight smile of encouragement, Alistair turned to leave. He looked over his shoulder at Loghain. "Upset her, traitor, and I'll –"

"You'll _what_, boy?" Loghain sneered. "Go running to your uncle? Sick your lover's hound on me? Kill me yourself?"

Alistair stopped. "Only in my dreams." He strode away quickly, leaving Elissa alone with the man who had abandoned their king – abandoned all of them – to die.

* * *

Loghain gave a short bow. "May I have this dance, my lady?"

Elissa inclined her head, not taking her grey eyes from him. He wrapped his left arm around her waist, and took one of her hands with his cold one. Elissa met his gaze steadily, tamping down the bile that threatened to rise. For all her poise, she could not forget what he had done only a few, short months ago.

Loghain glanced at Alistair, who leaned against the far wall with arms crossed and jaw tight. "I won't keep you away from your man for long. I do wish a private word with you, though. You, my lady, who are well-versed in politics, unlike some of your companions." His eyes flicked to Alistair again.

"State your business, my lord. Let's not draw out this experience any more than either of us wishes."

He sneered at her. "Very well. I'll make this brief, then. Tell Eamon to call off this ridiculous Landsmeet. Failing that, withdraw Alistair as a candidate. We both know that the boy is incapable of ruling a country."

Elissa eyed him coldly. "I'm afraid that's something I won't do."

"You foolish girl," he growled, still holding her but no longer dancing. "Tell me truthfully that you believe that he can lead, that he can call men to arms behind him… that he, with tainted blood, can produce an heir."

Elissa sucked in a breath.

"And I suppose that you think that you'll be queen one day, should he rise to the throne?" Loghain continued. "Fitting, truly. Two Grey Wardens who stood together against the threat of the Blight, growing together in strength and love, both from noble families, ready to rise to power… very poetic. And what will you do when you realize that neither of you can gain the same love that Anora has? What, when ten years hence, your womb remains barren? Will you send Alistair off to warm another woman's bed? Will you invite some handsome stranger to yours?"

"Enough!" Elissa cried, dropping her arms, her eyes blazing. "Alistair has all the makings of a good king. He is selfless, devoted to his country, brave, smart… and honorable."

Loghain's eyes darkened at her last words. "Honor, you say? Will honor hold a country together? Will honor draw people to stand behind you? Will your precious honor keep the threat of the Orlesians at bay?" His shouts drew alarmed glances, and Alistair pushed off the wall, staring daggers at him.

Ignoring those around them, Loghain strode forward and put his face inches from Elissa's unflinching one. "Hundreds of my men were not saved by my honor – they were saved by my knowledge of battle, and my ability to make difficult calls – to come to decisions that will better the Ferelden that I know and love."

He glanced back at Alistair. "That boy looks as though he's ready to take me on instead of the _true_ threat to our nation." He chuckled and fixed Elissa with another piercing gaze. "Remember this, Lady Cousland: if _I_ die – by his hand, yours, or another's – the best hope Ferelden has for victory dies with me. Although… perhaps a little provocation is exactly what Alistair needs to learn to take the initiative."

He turned and fixed Alistair with a hard gaze before taking Elissa by the shoulders and crushing his lips against hers.

Her eyes flew open in outrage, arms pushing uselessly against his immovable body. This was not the tender press of lips that she'd grown accustomed to during those stolen moments in camp or on the road. Loghain's lips were bruising and hateful – a kiss born of dominance and goading rather than love. All of his frustrations and vindication in his cause manifested in a painful grip around her arms, and a tongue that sought purchase against her tightly sealed lips.

Finally, he pulled away. His glower transformed to a dark smile that didn't reach his eyes as he gave her a disdainful bow.

"Thank you for the dance and the… engaging conversation, Lady Cousland. Think on what I said."

As Alistair raced toward them, his face contorted with anger and worry, Loghain smiled and gave a taunting salute.

With a whirl of black, he faded into the crowd.


End file.
